


Hipsters and Pretty Boys and Dumb Jocks! Oh My!

by TheMipstaz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blow Jobs, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Exhibitionism, M/M, Multi, Photography, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rimming, Scott McCall is a Ray of Sunshine, Shower Sex, Stiles Has a Crush on Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a loud-mouthed hipster, an amicable pretty boy, and disgruntled jock get thrown together for their Photography final project? Complete fucking chaos. Eventually they discover that the best way to get rid of the tension is to fuck it out, and maybe document it all along the way, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hipsters and Pretty Boys and Dumb Jocks! Oh My!

**Author's Note:**

> So I totally fell in love with [Alex's](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/.com) team lionheart [college AU](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/post/125657322302/derekscottstiles-college-au-what-happens-when), so obviously I had to add to it. Originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/125800094910/queerlyalex-derekscottstiles-college-au).

“Why the fuck are we taking photography, Scotty?”

“The answer still hasn’t changed from the last time you asked me, which was like five seconds ago, Stiles. It’s one of our required Gen Ed classes. Now take the damn picture. My arms are getting tired.”

Based on the pissy bitch face Derek is giving Stiles, he’s tired of slinging his arm over Scott’s shoulder as if they’re best bros instead of two random guys who got lumped together in the same group because the Stiles and Scott Show needed one more person and no one wanted to work with Mr. Hot, Dark, But Looks Like a Serial Killer On a Good Day.

“Fine,” huffs Stiles, squinting through the camera lens. Damn, Derek sure has nice photography equipment for a dude who got into UCLA on a basketball scholarship. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the set up in the loft Derek shares with his sister, a fancy tripod and big light flashy umbrella things that bring back scarring memories of high school yearbook picture days. Then he shakes his head and gets back to work. “Lemme just—shit!”

He accidentally knocks the camera awry just as the flash goes off. Scott groans, dropping his chin to his chest, while Derek looks truly amazed that someone could fuck up simply pressing a button.

“How’d it turn out?” Scott asks, clearly ready to delete it just like the last couple hundred pics they’ve snapped. He’s not even sure what the instructions for their final _are_. The professor had just spewed some bullshit about turning in something that makes people _feel something_ and to _become one with the camera_. Okay, that last one might’ve actually been one of Stiles’ mocking imitations of their professor, but it’s hardly Scott’s fault that Stiles does good impressions.

Stiles blinks in surprise. “Huh. Not too bad actually. Look.”

“We looks like we’ve been dressed by a 5 year old,” Derek growls. “And you can’t even see half our faces. Scott why the hell are you holding up both your arms like that?”

“I thought it would make it look exciting,” Scott defends himself. “Whatever, dude, just keep it. We need something to turn in tomorrow.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek bitches at the same time Stiles complains, “Who’s dumbass idea was it to wait until the day before it’s due?”

“You!” Scott and Derek shout before looking at each other in astonishment.

Stiles cracks up, wiping tears from his eyes that are only half imaginary as he cackles, “Oh my God, you guys should see your faces.”

“Just go take a freakin’ picture, Stilinski.” Derek shoves Stiles in front of the camera while he and Scott move behind it.

“Fine, fine, sheesh. Be careful with me. I’m 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. You’re like 200 of pure muscle at least.”

Derek rolls his eyes and looks through the camera lens. “What are you doing?”

“Giving a strip tease for my sexy boyfriend, obviously,” Stiles snarks back, his blazer already unbuttoned to reveal the plaid monstrosity underneath. He winks at Scott, grinning. “How do you like the view, buddy?”

Snorting as he tries to hold back a laugh, Scott gives Stiles a thumbs up. “It’s hot, dude.”

“See, Derek, you black soul-sucking void of death and gloom, Scotty appreciates me.”

Derek just looks skyward for strength and snaps the picture. It ends up cutting off the top half of Stiles’ face, catching his smirking mouth mid-laugh. Derek figures they’re even now and tries to ignore how his first thought is how good those pretty lips would look around his cock. Stiles’ boyfriend is literally five inches away; Derek needs to get a grip.

“Okay, now one with all three of us,” suggest Scott, throwing a new shirt at Derek and picking one at random from the clothes littering the floor. Buttoning up the new shirt, he clicks around on the camera before finding the 30 second timer. He drags Derek over to Stiles. The timer continues to count down as Scott tries to wrangle his partners into a semi-appropriate picture taking pose.

“No, Stiles, stop grabbing Derek’s shirt. I know you want to bone him, like, majorly, but keep it in your pants for 10 seconds.”

“Derek, don’t punch Stiles. We’re trying to take a nice picture, guys.”

The flash goes off and Scott isn’t particularly eager to see how that one came out. “C’mon, guys,” he implores, “we just need like five good ones. Stop it with the UST or just fix it already.”

“The what?” splutters Stiles, face red. Derek doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “Scott, I’m not going to _cheat_ on you. What the fuck?”

“It’s not cheating if it’s all consensual,” points out Scott with a shrug. “Polyamory is totally a thing, you know. Hey, does your sister have a polaroid camera?” He admires the clothes pinned pictures strung across the walls like fairy lights. “We could use that for some variety.”

Grunting an affirmative and more than grateful for an excuse to escape the conversation, Derek walks over to Laura’s dresser to rummage around. When he turns around with the camera, he finds Stiles furiously whispering to Scott.

“Dude, you know I’m totally not flirting with Derek, right?”

“Yeah, bro,” Scott assures him evenly. “And I totally want to get an A on this thing, so either fuck your guys’ brains out so we can actually get some shit done or find another way.”

“I don’t—” stammers Stiles. “I’m not—”

“I see the way you’ve been looking at him all semester, dude,” Scott smirks across the room and looks right at Derek. “I don’t blame you. He’s hot.”

Derek flushes, hating how the praise goes straight to his dick. He knows what Scott’s talking about—the sly, appraising glances Stiles shoots his way every now and then. He knows it should disgust him, these small acts of infidelity, but now Scott is throwing all that out the window.

Derek hesitates, biting his lip, unsure of where to go from here. Because he wants what Scott is offering so badly. He wants Stiles darkening amber eyes and Scott’s crooked jaw. He’s just not sure how to ask for it.

And then Scott’s taking the lead, murmuring, “Get the camera ready,” to Derek before capturing Stiles’ lips in a devastating kiss. It’s all heavy breaths, nipping teeth, and roaming hands as Stiles buries his fingers Scott’s hair and Scott slips a hand under the waistband of Stiles’ jeans to palm his ass.

Derek’s almost dizzy as blood rushes south, the polaroid camera held loosely in his hand as his mouth parts.

“Are you gonna take pictures or what, dude?” snarks Stiles as he rucks his shirt up and shoves his jeans down dangerously low on his hips.

 _Snap_.

There’s a nice shot of Stiles’ happy trail, one hand fondling the button of his pants while the other holds up his shirt.

“That’s hot,” grins Scott, kissing Stiles quickly before kicking his own pants off. He’s got nothing but a white tee on now, turning to show his ass to the camera. He shakes it a little as Derek snaps away, polaroids falling out of the camera almost faster than he can grab them, and Stiles laughs, slapping a hand over it to make Scott moan.

Switching to the digital camera, Derek undoes his own jeans. He pulls his dick out of his briefs to stroke even though it’s dryer than the fucking Sahara Desert and nearly hurts more than it feels good.

Once he’s got the camera strap securely around his neck, Derek can’t help the intake of breath when he sees Scott naked on his knees, lapping eagerly at Stiles’ dick, one hand splayed across Stiles’ hip bone and the other clutching his ass cheek to pull him closer. Resisting the urge to forget the camera and get a hand around his own dick and maybe a couple fingers in his ass, Derek steadies his shaking hands and clicks the record button.

Scott’s lips are swollen and red as he swallows down as much as he can, glancing up through thick lashes to watch Stiles’ blissed out face. Drool is dribbling out of his mouth and Stiles thumbs it away, hand caressing Scott’s lopsided jaw as his throat works around Stiles’ cock. “Fuck, Scotty,” he murmurs breathily, “so good.”

Derek groans, clenching his hands tighter around the camera to stop himself from getting off and missing any of this.

The hand clenching Stiles’ ass creeps down to rub a fingertip over Stiles’ entrance, which leads to him bucking with a grunt and Scott choking and pulling off. “Sorry, sorry,” Stiles mutters as Scott gets right back to work. “I’m close.” He kisses the vein running down the side of Stiles’ dick before mouthing at his balls. The tip of his fingers works its way into Stiles, who comes with a cry of, “Scott!”

The shutter clicks a few times and then Stiles is slumping heavily over Scott, hands braced on Scott’s shoulders as his legs tremble. Glancing down to see his work, arousal sparks through Derek when he sees the last picture he took: a money shot of Stiles’ come dripping in white rivulets down Scott’s gleaming skin.

“Enjoy the show?” Stiles asks smugly, clearing having caught his second wind.

“Something like that,” mutters Derek, trying to ignore his straining erection and the way Scott’s trying to wipe off the come from his shoulder and face. He wonders why Stiles is still being an asshole—and not the good kind—when it’s so obvious that the three of them are into this.

“If we’re gonna do this,” Scott warns, looking pretty serious for a guy on his knees with his hard dick out and streaks of come on his cheek, “then it’s not gonna be some kinky fling or something, alright? This is for the long run, so if you don’t like the idea of poly dating, just put your pants back on right now to save us all the trouble.”

“I’m not,” Derek coughs awkwardly. “I mean, I want… I want this. Long term. To date you guys, I mean.”

Stiles beams. “Scott, this might be the best idea you’ve ever had. And that’s including the Keying of Jackson’s Porsche Fiasco of ‘09.”

* * *

 After that, it’s all sweaty skin and nimble tongues and lust-heavy moans. The camera gets lost a couple times, but Derek manages to always keep it nearby to take a couple pics. Derek gets his brains and possibly soul sucked out through his dick by Stiles’ pretty cupid bow’s lips while Scott pounds Stiles’ ass. “Fuck, Scott,” Stiles grits out, rolling his hips and shoving back. “Right there, shit.” The visual alone is enough to push Derek to the edge, so he has to close his eyes just to last longer than 30 seconds like some freakin’ high schooler. In his defense, the obscene noises Stiles makes around his cock are filthy enough to put anyone on a hair trigger.

At some point, they all tumble into the, luckily, huge shower in the bathroom where Derek reduces Scott to an incoherent mess by introducing his talented mouth to Scott’s ass. Stiles is in another corner, frantically stripping his cock until he comes with a strangled groan onto Derek’s back. Then Derek’s being yanked up into a searing kiss, Scott at his back to lean in for a kiss as soon as Stiles breaks away. It makes Derek’s head spin, ass pressing back against Scott’s groin and cock rutting against Stiles’ hip bone. In short, they waste a lot of hot water.

The end of their failed—failed being a relative term because as far as Derek’s concerned, it’s a smashing success—photo session sees the three of them collapsing into Derek’s bed. He’s never been more grateful that he graciously allowed Laura the upstairs bedroom when they moved in.

Scott and Stiles are still naked when they tumble onto the sheets, exhausted and quick to cuddle together. Shaking the last of the water from this hair, Derek stoops down to pull on what he’s 80% sure are his black briefs and 100% sure is someone else’s white tee. Then he grabs the digital camera from the ground to put it back on the tripod and aim it toward the bed. Tilting it down a little, Derek cants it in what he considers an artistic angle because as a power forward he obviously knows how to pick a good camera angle. Stiles would probably just call stupid, but Derek clicks on the 30 second timer anyways.

Finally, he climbs onto the bed and gazes at the two boys on top of his sheets until he hears the camera go off. Turns out Scott is the snorer between the two of them, but then again Derek remembers Stiles mentioning something about Scott having asthma. Then he finally rolls over to sandwich Scott between himself and Stiles, who sleepily blinks his eyes open. Silently, Stiles reaches for Derek with the arm that isn’t wrapped snugly around Scott’s waist. Derek smiles a little and tangles his fingers with Stiles, chest warm with the sensation of utter belonging that washes over him.

Derek’s not sure what happiness looks like. He thinks it might be Laura dragging herself up at 8 in the morning every Saturday to make them blueberry pancakes the way Mom used to even though they never taste quite right. He also contemplates it being his half court buzzer beater from the last basketball game where his teammates hoisted him on their shoulders and chanted his name.

But now, the quiet dusk is settling over the room, red light fading from the floor-to-ceiling windows. When Derek turns his head, there are two beautiful boys in his bed promising something terrifying; they’re offering him forever. The sound of Scott’s raspy breaths fills the loft and Stiles’ hand traces idle patterns on his hip. Derek wonders if this might be happiness.

* * *

 The following morning is a chaotic mess of sailors’ swears and throwing on the nearest available clothes after Derek’s alarm fails its one and only job and doesn’t go off.

“Quick, Scott, take a picture of the polaroids on the walls! That’s artsy and shit, right?”

“Derek, that’s my shirt! You’ll stretch it out!”

“Too bad. Go find your own.”

“Stiles, hurry up and take a picture of me holding the camera.”

“Where are all our polaroids from yesterday?”

“Aren’t they all of our dicks? We can’t turn that in, dude.”

“Hey, you never know. Our teach could be a total perv and give us an A.”

“Stiles, we are not turning in pornography for our final.”

“Fine, you spoilsport.”

“Wait, did anyone take those pics off the digital camera?”

“…God damn it, where’s the cord to connect it to my laptop, Scott?”

To sum up, all three of them are late to class. Derek’s wearing atrocious striped shirt looks like it’s about to burst open at the seams, Stiles doesn’t have any underwear on, and Scott’s missing one shoe. Who the fuck made photography a 9 AM course anyways?

“We’re here!” Stiles yells as they charge through the door, skidding to a stop and nearly dropping the camera in the process. “We’re here. Our thing isn’t late.” Scott grabs it from his wildly flailing limbs just to be safe and sheepishly hands it to the professor, who gives them the most judging look Stiles has ever seen. And Stiles once got so drunk he started sobbing uncontrollably about the frog he dissected in 9th grade, named it Pedro, and planned a full on funeral until he realized he didn’t have Pedro’s body. It took Lydia hours to console him.

Stiles’ mouth is already open to snap out some stinging retort when Derek claps his hand over it, manages a fake but probably real looking smile, and politely says, “Thanks. We’ll go sit down now.”

Hauling Stiles away to a safe distance, Derek plops down in the nearest seat with a sigh of relief. Scott sits down next to him, setting his backpack down. “Thank God that mess is done,” he says and Derek nods in agreement.

“So…” Scott starts awkwardly as the professor proceeds to pull up a PowerPoint presentation for some God awful reason. They’re done with the class and pretty much everyone is counting down the minutes until they can get the hell out of the room.

But Scott’s interrupted by Stiles slapping a folded piece of paper onto Derek’s desk.

“I’m literally sitting right next to you,” Derek frowns, but Stiles just slides the note closer to him and winks at Scott. What are they, in middle school? “Okay,” he concedes, rolling his eyes and opening the note even though he’s pretty sure he knows what it’s going to say.

Sure enough, in Stiles’ chicken-scratch handwriting is _Do you want to go out with us? Check yes or no._

“I thought we already established this,” protests Derek, but Stiles just hisses, “The note, Derek. You have to respond on the note.” Turning to Scott for support against Stiles’ ridiculousness, Derek is met only with liquid brown puppy eyes.

Making sure to huff and make a big deal about it—he’s got a reputation to uphold, okay? No one can know he’s already wrapped around these two dorks’ pinkies—Derek grabs the pen out of Stiles’ hand and checks the yes box. “There,” he grumps. Or he tries to grump, but Scott’s crooked smile is infectious and Stiles is doing some ludicrous victory fist pump that’s got their crotchety professor glaring at him like maybe lasers will shoot out of his eyes and burn Stiles to a crisp.

And, in that moment, Derek decides, yeah, this is what happiness is.


End file.
